


Burning Up Inside

by StormyDaze



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Injury, M/M, Mentions of canon deaths, No Betas We Die Like Barricade Boys, Unrequited Love, Victim Treated Like a Lover, rapist in love with victim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 19:24:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19409800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormyDaze/pseuds/StormyDaze
Summary: Grantaire rescues an injured Enjolras from the barricade and tends his wounds. But when he finally has Enjolras in his bed, well, he can't really be blamed for what happens next, can he?





	Burning Up Inside

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ancslove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancslove/gifts).



Grantaire’s head pounds.

He’s hungover but not drunk, a state he finds most disagreeable at the best of times, and this is hardly among them. The barricade has fallen; the bodies of his friends lie scattered on the ground, barely visible in the darkness. 

Grantaire never claimed to be a hero; when Enjolras went down, he lay down beside him without waiting for a bullet of his own. Now, under the cover of darkness, he has a tiny window of opportunity, and he takes it, dragging Enjolras through the rubble. Someone will be coming for the bodies soon, but Grantaire doubts they’ll notice two missing.

Free from the debris, Grantaire hoists Enjolras onto his shoulder. The only thing that lets him know his Apollo is still alive is the sticky warm wetness of the blood soaking through his shirt, but it’s enough. He carries Enjolras through the Paris streets until they get to his little apartment. It’s not easy to drag Enjolras up the stairs, but he does, fumbles with the key until the door swings open, and bolts it behind him.

The apartment is tiny and cramped. The bed takes up most of the space, and Grantaire drops Enjolras onto it. He lights a candle and fills a bowl with water, and then moves to inspect the damage.

Enjolras’s shirt is ruined anyway, so Grantaire cuts it off, carefully peeling it away from where it’s pasted to his body with drying blood. Grantaire soaks a rag in water and dabs at the wound, trying to get a good look at it. The bullet went through cleanly, but Grantaire can’t tell if it hit anything vital. Perhaps Combeferre would be able to, but he isn’t here. This is the only hope Enjolras has. The thought makes Grantaire give a bark of humorless laughter. 

Grantaire washes the wound with water, then with wine. Combeferre used to wash even the smallest scrapes with alcohol, claiming it prevented infection. He folds up clean rags, presses them to each wound, and binds them in place with the cleanest scraps he can salvage from Enjolras’s shirt. Tomorrow he’ll get proper bandages, but tonight, this is all he has to offer. Enjolras shifts a little throughout his ministrations, his eyelids fluttering, but he does not wake.

When he’s cleaned Enjolras up as best he can, Grantaire wrestles off Enjolras’s boots and trousers, tossing them on a chair to deal with later. He stops for a moment to admire Enjolras, lying there in just his underclothes. Instead of its usual golden glow, Enjolras’s skin has a sickly greenish pallor to it, but his body is just as perfectly sculpted as Grantaire always suspected. His face is gentler in sleep, younger, no longer burdened with plans for an upcoming battle. Grantaire presses a kiss to his forehead and then strips and climbs into the bed next to them. He falls asleep listening to Enjolras breathe.

He wakes with one arm slung over Enjolras’s chest and his face buried in those golden curls. When he peels himself away, Enjolras’s eyes flutter open.

“R?” he says, barely a breath in a dry throat. He struggles to sit up and winces as he pulls at his wound. 

Grantaire places a firm hand on his chest and pushes him back down into the bed. “Don’t move,” he says. “Let me get you some water.” He fetches a cup of water and holds Enjolras’s head up enough to drink. His fingers stroke through Enjolras’s hair without his conscious direction, but how can he be this close to a god and not touch? No mortal could expect anything more.

Enjolras’s throat bobs as he swallows. Grantaire wants to run his tongue up that throat, hear what sounds he can wring from it.

“What happened?” Enjolras asks. “Combeferre, Courfeyrac…”

“They’re dead,” Grantaire says shortly. It hurts, of course it does. They were his friends. But they made their choice. He never could have saved them. 

Being able to save Enjolras is a miracle. He won’t squander it.

Tears drip from Enjolras’s eyes, and Grantaire gently thumbs them away. “Rest now,” he says. “You need to heal.” He sits there on the bed, holding Enjolras as he cries himself back to sleep. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Enjolras burns with fever, and there’s nothing Grantaire can do but hope. He’s never been one for prayer. What use is it anyway, when the god he’d pray to thrashes weakly in his own bed? He alternates sponging Enjolras’s sweat away with a damp cloth and curling up around him to lend his body warmth when Enjolras shakes with chills. He changes the bandages daily, gets Enjolras to sip water and broth when his eyes open, and he hopes that just this once, his best will be enough.

It’s profane, the way his hands brush over Enjolras’s feverish skin, but he can’t stop himself. He’s spent so long dreaming about this. His calloused fingertips trace down Enjolras’s thighs and over the planes of his chest, circle around his nipples, swipe up and down his throat. Grantaire drinks it all in like the finest wine. Who needs wine when he’s drunk on divinity?

He’s painting an invisible landscape on Enjolras’s chest with his fingers when he looks up and sees Enjolras watching back. His eyes are clear for the first time in… how long has it been? He’s lost track of the days they’ve been holed up in here. No one’s come looking for them; who’s left to look? 

Grantaire feels like he’s caught fever too. It’s the only explanation for the scorching heat that rolls through him.

Enjolras’s tongue darts out to lick dry, cracked lips. “Grantaire,” he says, and Grantaire can see it, all the old disgust and insults filling up his mouth like venom and a knife of cold panic shoots down Grantaire’s spine. He can’t stand it, finally getting what he’s wanted for so long and then having it ripped away. It would be better to die.

He lunges and captures Enjolras’s mouth with a kiss. It’s rough and sloppy and desperate, but as long as he can swallow down all the bitterness he knows Enjolras is waiting to speak, Grantaire doesn’t care. He slides his tongue into Enjolras’s mouth, claiming every surface.

He’s been gentle with his touches so far, not wanting to disturb Enjolras’s much-needed rest, but Enjolras isn’t asleep anymore, and Grantaire’s gentleness is spent. He swings a leg over Enjolras’s hips and pulls himself on top of him. Enjolras moans in his mouth, probably in pain as Grantaire jostles the still-healing wound, but it sounds just like the moans Grantaire hears in his dreams, and it goes straight to his cock. 

Enjolras writhes beneath him, brings his hands up to Grantaire’s chest to shove him away, but it’s pitifully easy to catch his wrists and pin them above his head. Doesn’t he understand how much it hurts, to be so close to the sun and yet never able to touch it? How could he hurt Grantaire like this, when Grantaire has taken such good care of him?

Grantaire’s hips buck of their own accord, rubbing his hardening cock against Enjolras’s pelvis and eliciting more moans. The hand that isn’t pinning Enjolras trails down and begins to roll a nipple between his fingers. It hardens under his attention.

He feels Enjolras… not relax, exactly, but slow his struggling until he’s lying still and stiff beneath Grantaire. Grantaire sits up, careful to keep his weight off the wound. Enjolras doesn’t shove him, doesn’t even open his eyes. He knows Grantaire deserves this, that he needs this. 

Grantaire bends down and licks a stripe up the side of Enjolras’s throat, tasting salt. Enjolras flinches but doesn’t move his hands from where they still lay above his head, as if Grantaire were still holding them in place. Grantaire licks down Enjolras’s chest, stopping to lave one nipple with his tongue while he rolls the other between his fingers. His free hand strokes against Enjolras’s ribs, relishing the feel of hard muscle under soft skin.

Grantaire presses kisses over Enjolras’s chest, as low as he can go before the bandages impede his progress. He wants to worship Enjolras with his mouth, with his fingers, with his cock, which is now painfully hard and straining against his underclothes. He skips over the bandages and kisses the little trail of hair that runs from Enjolras’s navel to dip beneath his underclothes. Gently, Grantaire eases them down over Enjolras’s hips and down his thighs, revealing such a perfect cock that Grantaire wants to weep over it. It’s soft and pink, haloed by golden curls, and Grantaire can’t keep from throwing himself down and taking the tip into his mouth.

“Grantaire, please—” Enjolras says, and then his words are choked off by a soft whine. Grantaire’s not a novice at cocksucking, not by any means, and he wants to put all of his considerable skill to the task. He licks Enjolras’s shaft, sucks the head, even swallows the whole thing down until he can bury his nose in those golden curls, but Enjolras’s cock refuses to so much as twitch.

Grantaire huffs and pulls back. Fine. There are other things he can do. He fetches a small bottle of oil from the small side table and slicks his fingers up. He spreads Enjolras’s legs wide and circles his hole with one oily finger.

“Don’t—” Enjolras says, but Grantaire is already thrusting a finger in, and Enjolras whimpers. He’s tight, so tight and hot around Grantaire’s finger that Grantaire thinks he might come just from imagining the feeling around his cock. He suspects, is almost certain, that Enjolras has never done this before, so he tries to take his time and goes slow, coaxing his hole open until his index finger slides in and out without resistance. He adds a second finger, scissoring them to stretch Enjolras wide, and then slips in a third for good measure. He’s practically out of his mind with lust now, his cock throbbing painfully with need, and he wants to be gentle for Enjolras but his restraint is running out. He withdraws his fingers, grips Enjolras’s hips to keep him in place, and then slides in. He means to take it slowly, to give Enjolras time to adjust, but the second he feels that hot tightness around his cock, his hips jerk forward, burying him completely. Enjolras yelps. Grantaire looks up and there are tears dotting his golden lashes, and Enjolras’s fists grip the pillow beneath his head hard enough that his knuckles are white. But Grantaire can’t stop now, and he can still make this good for Enjolras, he just has to keep going and then everything will be all right. He starts to rock his hips back and forth, moaning as Enjolras’s hole squeezes his cock. He’s never felt such exquisite tightness before, and he know that he won’t last long, but this is the culmination of years of wet dreams and he wants to draw it out for as long as he can. His hips seem to move on their own though, pounding faster and faster, his balls slapping hard against Enjolras’s ass. He thrusts in and comes hard, vision whiting out, lost to everything around him but the shocks of pleasure coursing through him like lightning. He’s imagined this so many times but nothing could have prepared him for the reality of it. If someone told him that he died at the barricade and somehow made it to heaven, he’d believe it. 

He collapses on top of Enjolras, nerves still buzzing with the aftershocks of his orgasm. When he comes back to himself, he realizes that he’s putting pressure on the bullet wound and rolls off, curling up around Enjolras instead. He throws one leg over Enjolras’s legs, pins Enjolras’s hips with his own. He lays his arm across Enjolras’s torso and dips his hand down to stroke Enjolras’s still-soft cock. Well. He’ll just have to try again later, then. The other hand he tangles through Enjolras’s hair, stroking it soothingly. Enjolras is still crying, tears pouring down his cheeks, and without thinking about it, Grantaire darts out his tongue to taste one. It burns his tongue like a drop of heavenly fire.

Grantaire lays his head on Enjolras’s chest, enveloping and pinning him with his body, and drifts off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Been a while since I've written Les Mis, so hopefully the details are right. Happy Nonconathon!


End file.
